Riptide
by ChronicCombustion
Summary: "Tell me… how many Number IX's do you think there were before you came along?" Multi-chapter. Pre-game. AkuDem Pre-friendship/relationship. Language. Mild Violence. OC death. For ninemelodies.


So I RP as Axel on tumblr and **ninemelodies** is basically an in-real-life Demyx anyway, and the two of us have a lot - and I mean a _lot_ \- of conversations that just dissolve into character studies. This particular story idea came about while we were discussing the early days of Organization XIII... and just how many different members there could have possibly been other than the ones we see in the actual games.

Cuz hey. Axel is an assassin, after all; who did he have to kill to get that rank before Marluxia joined? Just how many got turned into Dusks that the process became a viable threat to hold over members' heads in the case of insubordination?

The Organization is roughly a decade old by the time KH2 starts. Ten years is a lot of time for shady stuff to go down...

Discalimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts, nor any of the characters/locations therein.

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Riptide

Prologue: Drought

The stark white of the Round Room loomed up at him, chairs like towers endlessly ascending. His was up there, somewhere. Not that he was ever really allowed to sit in it much. He'd been the Organization's lackey for too long now – he'd since become used to having too much to do to actually make it into his seat beyond the odd group meeting. Mostly, he was stuck on the ground, forever feeding the Superior his reports.

Thus far, the so-called Organization had its leader, its second-in-command, various foot soldiers, a scientist, and a tactician. Why, exactly, Number VI was needed, was beyond him, especially when there was no real strategy required for destroying Heartless so long as they had no way of securing hearts. Still, he supposed Zexion served a purpose – now, if only he could find his own.

He was supposed to have been a reconnaissance agent, someone who went off in search of information for the Organization, someone observant. However, what with the job he was currently doing, he was beginning to feel more like something else entirely. A drill sergeant, maybe.

Or an executioner.

Green eyes lifted to scan the top of the room from under his black hood. There sat their Superior, smirking down at him with cold, golden eyes. He quickly looked away again.

"What is your report, Number VIII?" came the steely, monotone voice from the highest chair.

There was no one else currently in the space besides the pair of them, so drastic in their contrast of positions in power. The highest in a lofty throne. The lowest on the bare, solid ground. Despite this, however, he felt claustrophobic – as if thousands of extra sets of eyes were peering down at him. He never liked this part. In fact, he might have hated it worse than the orders he knew were to follow it. It was always made clear that the Superior blamed him in at least some small way for the continued failure of his assignment. He swallowed.

Licking his lips, he focused on the ever-present hollow feeling gnawing at the inside of his chest. It kept him grounded when his missing heart threatened to betray him with phantom traces of half-remembered fear. "After failing to locate the target, Number IX was injured during a Heartless ambush and fled before completing the mission. He's been stabilized, but it's apparent he's unsuited for combat and has no observational skills whatsoever. He's weak, my lord." He kept his head down as he spoke, voice nothing but a drone as he gave his report. He hated this…

The Superior gave a low hum. "I was expecting more out of this one, Number VIII."

The disapproval in his leader's voice was unmistakable, and he felt himself unconsciously shrink into the safety of his hood just a little more.

The Superior spoke again. "It is clear to me that the lowest of our number will continue to do poorly on his missions. Without you to guide him, it seems Number IX is incapable of doing anything but disappoint." There was a faint squeak of leather, as the Superior no doubt leaned forward in the white chair to glare down at him with displeased eyes. "The Organization does not allow for weakness," he reminded – as if it were a fact anyone was ever allowed to forget. "Nor do we keep failed experiments. Number IX is of no use to us, Number VIII. Dispose of him."

He bowed stiffly. Turning on his heel, he strode as quickly and as casually as he could from the sterile white walls of the Round Room, not even bothering to open up a portal in his haste to get away.

The nicest corridor in the dormitory wing of the castle – if you could call nigh-identical spaces "nice" – had been afforded to the original members of the Organization. Following the Superior, of course, who had his own separate room elsewhere in the castle. That meant that the neighboring corridor was used to house the remaining members. It would have made more sense to put them all together, he thought, seeing as how there was plenty of space in the massive floating fortress, but apparently underlings were required to earn their place amongst the founding members. A feat that he had not yet been able to accomplish.

His boots clicked forebodingly in the silence of the hallway as he approached the door furthest down past his own. No doubt the person inside was resting, recovering their strength after having nearly died earlier that day. Well. He used the word "die" rather loosely. None of them was really sure what happened to creatures like them once they vanished. He stopped just outside it, raising a gloved hand to grab the handle, but paused at the soft sound of coughing coming from beyond the door.

He gritted his teeth. It was one thing to watch his subordinates die in battle, or to strike them down while they fought him for their feeble existence, or even to see them suffer the wrath of their Superior first hand as they bled away into nothing more than witless Dusks. It was another thing entirely to barge in while they were already half gone and give them no warning before the end. Sighing, he raised his hand again, this time rapping sharply with the back of his knuckles.

Immediately the coughing stopped. "…C-come in?"

He did so, calmly but deliberately opening the door and stepping inside. He folded his arms across his chest, fighting back the habit of tugging off his shadowing hood as he leaned his back against the doorframe.

The sickly figure sitting on the edge of the bed looked, simply put, like hell: gaunt, deathly pale, and quite visibly shaking. "U-uhm, I can't… I-I don't know who—"

"Xerga."

At the sound of his voice, the figure relaxed somewhat, letting out a breath of air that had no doubt been held in anxiety. "O-oh. It's you, Axel." The one called 'Xerga' smiled. "I didn't recognize you with your hood up. You know I still can't tell anyone apa—"

But Axel had straightened up, squared his shoulders, and Xerga fell silent mid-sentence as the last of the color drained from his already-ashen face. "A-Axel?"

For a brief moment, Axel felt sorry for the boy. Xerga was young – no younger than any of them had been, but still too young in Axel's mind. They had all been too young. Black, sticky blood still matted the boy's mossy green hair to his thin skull, and his watery brown eyes were bright with fear.

Closing his own eyes, Axel stretched a hand out beside himself and let all thoughts of pity trickle from his mind. "Xerga, Number IX. By our Superior's orders, you are hereby sentenced to elimination for failure to uphold your usefulness to the Organization."

He watched the trembling Nobody stiffen in terror that couldn't possibly have been real. Xerga's breathing quickened, rapidly turning to hyperventilation. "N-no! No, wait!"

"You have been granted the chance to rejoin with Kingdom Hearts," Axel intoned, keeping his eyes trained on the other in case Xerga tried portal away. It was a speech he'd long since had carved into his brain, fed to him countless times by the Superior as the task of eliminating failed members continued to fall on Axel's shoulders. Xerga was merely the latest in a long line of ill-fated Number IXs.

"No, wait, Axel, PLEASE!"

Twitching his fingers, Axel willed a spiked wheel of fire into existence, the flickering lights bathing the room in a murderous red-and-yellow glow. He raised the chakram, still burning, and drew it back to make a killing swing. "Accept your fate with dignity."

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I can't draw worth shit, but I used an online doll maker thing to make a rough picture of Xerga and a few other ill-fated Org members. There's a link at the bottom of my Ao3 posting of this story, as well as on my tumblr.


End file.
